


leave me: my heart is dead, for all to see

by folkloricfeel



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:40:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folkloricfeel/pseuds/folkloricfeel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s almost nice, he supposes in some bittersweet way, to be given this much notice, this much time to breathe and take stock, in being told to get the hell out this time around.</p>
<p>Post-canon; major spoilers for 2x06, mentions of past major character death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave me: my heart is dead, for all to see

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eudaimon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/gifts).



> Title and body lyrics taken from Keaton Henson's "Beekeeper" and "Milk Teeth." Happy Yuletide. <3

_darling, your eyes are so still when you speak, and darling, you just haven’t spoken all week._

It’s nearly a week after the funeral when the phone rings, and Simon thinks that if he could, he’d be letting out a breath he wouldn’t admit to himself he was holding at the sound of Kieren’s voice on the other end.

“It’s,” Kieren starts, then pauses, “well. You’ve still got your suitcase packed, right?”

“Thought you were the one who wanted to save Paris for another time,” Simon says, trying to sound light, trying not to get his hopes up, trying not to think of all sorts of things that might be causing the jump in Kieren’s voice and the sudden change of heart.

“It’s not like that,” Kieren says. There’s a sound of papers rustling and what might be the groan of bed springs being sunk into. “It’s Amy’s dad,” he says, “You’ve got to get out.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Simon says.

Kieren sighs again. “You know how Amy wanted me to take care of her - to handle things,” he says, “and she wanted me to, I. I found her dad. At work, at his uni office.” Simon can almost hear the thoughts coming in spurts through Kieren’s head to his words; he doesn’t remember Amy having mentioned her father, but he figures she wouldn’t have had much reason, or not to him, anyway. “And the bungalow - it’s not. It wasn’t left to Amy, not technically, I mean, it was, in her grandmother’s will, but because Amy died first, I mean, the first time she - so it’s her dad’s, technically. And he wants to sell it.”

“Good luck with that,” Simon says, his eyes falling to the empty vials of neurotryptyline piled up in the bin, the echoes of guitar chords and sermons still hanging in curtains and corners.

“Yeah, well, you’ll get your chance to try and persuade him if you want, see if it works better than mine,” Kieren scoffs, “he’s bringing an estate agent ‘round next week.” Another pause. “And he wants Amy’s stuff all gone by then.”

“Gone?” Simon repeats.

“I can help,” Kieren says, “Jem’s starting her sessions this week, so I don’t know how much she’ll be up for, but I can see if I can get mum and dad to come over with me on the weekend - ”

“You don’t have to - ”

“I’m the one that got us into this mess, might as well pitch in and help out,” he says, “I’ll come ‘round tomorrow morning to start.”

“If you like,” Simon says, cautiously, “but don’t bother your family for my sake.”

“I’ll bring boxes.”

“Kieren - ”

“Ten a.m. sharp, right, then.”

Simon starts to say, _god, I’ve missed you_ , and ends up instead at, “it’ll be good to have the company, then.”

*

In retrospect, the first thing that made him gravitate toward Kieren was, oddly enough, all of Kieren’s nervous energy. He can draw up a hundred little moments in his mind of Kieren’s knees bouncing idly on couches or around campfires, of him fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket or bobbing a fork between his fingers to distract attention from uneaten dinner plates, and he thinks somewhere in the sum of all those twitches and tics lies what made him fall so fast, at least at first. It’s been a long time since Simon can remember feeling alive, and even if Kieren’s blood is as still as his these days, he gives the illusion of a racing pulse, a heart too quickened by adrenaline not to beat. It’s been a longer time still since Simon can remember wanting to feel anything but dead, but even so, sometimes in his worst moments he’s afraid to ask himself if he initially fell for Kieren not just for the wrong reasons of finding the first risen, but of some small part of him needing to feel that close to someone who feels so close to life, too.

Kieren is full of that energy, almost spilling over with it, when he arrives the next morning, boxes in tow. He moves around the house on a mission, stacking silverware and scrubbing countertops, neither of them offering much in the way of conversation beyond occasional questions of which plates were there before Simon moved in and whether they should start a new box just for linens or if the one with the curtains in it already will do. It's a comfortable silence, even with so much unsaid being tucked away between newspapers and into corners of boxes, and before long, Simon loses track of time in the rhythm of clinking glasses and the almost-tangible hum of Kieren's focus.

He's finishing up with the last stack of mugs left when Kieren says, "I don't know even know if he knew."

"Hmm?" Simon asks.

"Amy's dad," Kieren says, "I don't even know if he knew that, you know." He reaches across Simon to the cupboard above them, and Simon imagines a flicker of warmth at the place where their arms brush. "About her. That she was PDS."

"You didn't tell him?" Simon asks.

"He didn't really want to listen to anything I had to say, I don't think," Kieren says. "It was hard enough getting him to hear me out about Amy's letter, and once the bungalow came up, it was all business from there." Simon hadn't wanted to ask much about the will, but he'd assumed as much for Kieren's intentions. "Had the gall to ask if I was friends with her from the hospital, though."

"From Norfolk?" Simon asks. 

Kieren shakes his head. "I think he knew. Know he did, me calling him now, after all this time. Just couldn't say it out loud."

"Some people can't, even still," Simon says, "the nature of the thing, I suppose."

"He left when Amy was nine, you know," Kieren says, leaning over the sink. "Her mum was the one that got her from Norfolk, and her parents haven't spoken in years, so I doubt she would've been one to tell him. Didn't even come to her funeral, the first one, apparently, she told me. He stopped coming to visit at the hospital the last few months altogether."

"Sounds like quite the gentleman there," Simon says. Kieren stares into the basin, frowning like there's something he can't quite verbalize; he grips the sides of the sink like his knuckles ought to flash white, then red, even if they don't.

"Don't know how someone can do that, you know," he says, finally.

"Do what?" Simon asks.

"Lie to themselves like that," Kieren says, "carry on like everything's fine and not say the thing that's right there, elephant in the room and all, once they see it."

"People have a way of protecting themselves from the truth," Simon says, "if it scares them enough."

"Wouldn't be protecting for me, it'd eat me alive, the knowing and the not saying it," Kieren says, and if Simon could feel, he'd feel his stomach flip.

*

He dreams that night that he’s at the medical centre, after Maxine Martin and the fete, and Kieren’s asking him why he left, why he went into the city. He opens his mouth to say it was because he was scared, terrified of how much Kieren makes him feel, of being enough for someone like Kieren, and just as he’s about to say all the things he’d hold himself back still from saying awake, Philip rushes in shouting, a body in his arms.

It takes Simon a moment to realize there’s no one sitting next to him anymore, because the body isn’t Amy’s, it’s Kieren’s.

Philip stops in the doorway and stares at him, rage in his eyes, cradling Kieren’s lifeless body as it bleeds out, and Simon wants to yell, _do something, get help, why the hell are you letting him die_ , but he already knows the answer.

Philip pulls Simon’s blood-covered dagger out of his pocket and says, “he’s not a messiah, and neither are you,” and Simon jolts awake in bed with a scream lost in the back of his throat.

*

Steve comes over Sunday afternoon to help them move out some of the larger pieces of furniture and load them over to the Walkers’ shed for the time being, which doubles as an excuse for Sue to invite Simon over for Sunday dinner. That, of course, doubles as an excuse for Sue to dote on Simon about where he’s going to go and if he’s got a place to stay, if he needs them to make up the guest room for a few weeks while he gets everything settled, which Simon is fairly certain serves in turn yet again as reassurance that he won’t leave town again, that he won’t take Kieren with him and get him tangled up in the latest murmurs of uprising. He tells them over air-forked pieces of pot roast that he’s fine, he’s got a friend with a room to let on the edge of town who’s drawing up a lease for him, which is only partly true but seems to ease everyone’s minds. Jem gives mostly one-word answers more told into her gravy than to the table when the topic of her sessions come up; Simon can’t help but recognize the familiar heaviness in her eyes the whole time, the guarded sort of thanks when he politely echoes Steve’s sentiments that he’s glad she’s finally talking to someone about everything. It’s not five minutes more before she excuses herself under the guise of course work for tomorrow, and Sue watches her head up the stairs, shaking her head and looking at Steve expectantly.

Steve clears his throat and pokes at a few carrots on his plate. “So what’ve you got lined up now for yourself, son?” He smiles at Simon. “Thought about a job, or going back to university? Got to have something lined up to keep yourself busy.”

“ _Dad_ ,” Kieren hisses, and Sue sighs in kind.

“Now, now, I think it’s a fair question,” Steve says, “after all, a father wants to know these things about his son’s - well. Just inquiring about Simon’s intentions, you see.”

“Come on now, Steve,” Sue says, “I’m sure the boy hasn’t had much time to give it thought yet, considering everything.”

“Well, he ought to figure out what he wants to do with his life,” Steve shrugs.

“I’ve been thinking a bit about university,” Simon says, which is sort of true, if not as true as he makes it sound, “not certain what I’d want to study, though.”

“How about seminary?” Steve muses. “What with putting your preaching and all to good use, now that we know there won’t be a second rising and all that.”

“We don’t know that, dad,” Kieren says quietly, and it’s enough for Simon’s instincts to want to hold in a breath with nowhere to go. Sue’s hand stills her napkin at the corner of her lip.

“What was that again, Kier?” Steve asks, voice steady.

“I said,” Kieren repeats, “we don’t know there won’t be a second rising.”

“But I thought, with Maxine Martin out of the picture - ” Sue starts.

“Maxine Martin lost her damn mind,” Kieren’s voice raises, the slightest hint of a quiver, “and killed my best friend.” He stares right across the table, hands trembling. “And that’s all that happened.”

“Kieren,” Steve says warningly, but Kieren just shakes his head and stands up, sitting his napkin down right in the middle of his untouched pot roast.

“We don’t know a damn thing, dad, and neither do you,” Kieren repeats, and shoves his chair against the table, moving to head up the stairs and elbowing hard against the computer table as he storms out.

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, Steve sputtering wordlessly and Sue cradling her forehead in her hands, and Simon figures the best thing to say is, “I’ll go look after him.” Sue nods in thanks without looking up. “Sorry for that.”

He can’t help but catch his eye on, and be caught off guard by, the internet window still up on the computer as he passes by: a video titled _Victus MP Goes Bonkers, Gets Tasered After Calling For Second Rising_ , pulled up in a tab next to pages about Parisian art programmes.

*

The final plan, they decide, is to store everything but a few boxes of Amy’s things in the Walkers’ shed, and decide later what’s of worth to sell and what can be given to charity. Those remaining boxes - photographs, including a few from the rave, a few of Amy’s favorite dresses, anything else with sentimental value - they’ll leave stacked by the door for when her father comes by on Tuesday, and leave the choice to him.

Simon stands in the entryway, watching as Kieren turns Amy’s letter over, over again, unsteady in his hands. He’s given everything the once-over; his bags are on the front lawn, waiting to be packed in the trunk of Steve’s car. It’s almost nice, he supposes in some bittersweet way, to be given this much notice, this much time to breathe and take stock, in being told to get the hell out this time around.

“Come on, Kier,” he says, “think it’s time to close up.” He steps toward Kieren but stops. He can all but see the tension pulsing out of Kieren, trembling through his fingertips and through the core of him; he doesn’t have to feel it to know there’s something on Kieren’s mind.

“I saw it, Simon,” he says quietly.

“Saw what?” Simon asks, even if he’s certain he knows the answer.

“At the fete,” Kieren says, “I was still high on Blue Oblivion, but not gone enough not to see the dagger in your hand.”

“Oh,” Simon says, and this is it, isn’t it. This is how it ends, this is goodbye.

“I knew what you were going to do,” Kieren says, “I should’ve seen it coming, what with everything.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through with it,” Simon says; he thinks there’s a good chance, at least, that it’s the truth.

“That’s why you went to the city, isn’t it,” Kieren continues, his voice rising in pitch a little, and the pulsing around them gets so strong it spills through Simon’s ears, makes him feel like he’s fighting through waves. “To meet with the Prophet. About me.”

“Something like that.” Simon’s voice cracks around his words.

“Because you thought I was the first risen.”

“I did,” Simon says.

“So you were going to kill me. And start the second rising.”

The waves start whispering, _he’s not a messiah, and neither are you_ , and Simon can’t answer, which he thinks is answer enough.

Kieren puts his hands against the back of his head and turns to Simon. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he says, voice almost to a shout now. “You just, you, you up and disappeared, after everything - I thought you were gone forever, and then you didn’t tell me, and everything in the graveyard, and I don’t - ” His arms are flailing around, eyes manic and darting, and the waves are too much, all around them now. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I never could have done it, you know that, Kieren,” Simon says, and braces himself for the _I can’t trust you_ s, the _we’re done, I never want to see you again_ s that are surely coming from here. “Not at all, and not after what happened in the graveyard - ”

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Kieren says, and the next part is so quiet Simon is almost certain he mishears: “so that we could have planned it.”

“Planned it?” Simon asks, and the waves come crashing to a peak when Kieren crumples into a pile on the floor of the entryway, dropping Amy’s letter beside him.

“Together,” Kieren repeats. “We could’ve planned it together, Simon, and, and you could’ve done it in front of Maxine Martin - we could’ve staged it and everything - and then,” he says, pulling himself in, arms around his knees. “And then Amy would. Would never have - god, why didn’t you just tell me, Simon.”

Simon isn’t certain if he’s fully processing, but he can’t stop himself from sinking down beside Kieren and grabbing hold of his hands. Kieren’s shaking like he’d be racked with sobs if he could cry, like it’s hell to keep the sobbing trapped inside him that way. He wants to tell him, _you know it’s not your fault, about Amy_ , that everything still might’ve turned out the same no matter; he wants to tell him over and over, _you’re incredible, Kieren_ , and mean it in a way he’s certain now no longer has anything to do with risings.

He holds Kieren’s hands tight inside his own until the shaking subsides instead, and says again, “there’s what I believed, and then there’s you, Kieren.”

“Believed?” Kieren asks, squeezing Simon’s hands to stop the last trembles. Simon doesn’t know the answer for sure, but he thinks he’s getting there.

“Something like that,” he says.

“I don’t even know,” Kieren says, “if I’m the first risen, or if it was Amy, or what, at all, Simon. I don’t even know. I’m sorry, Simon, I’m sorry.”

Simon doesn’t know, either, so he pulls Kieren closer to him and says, “then there’s you, Kieren. Then there’s you.”


End file.
